My grandma’s house
was in the middle
of nowhere.

She lived
on the same plot of land
that her parent’s
had lived on.

With my grandpa,
they built their
own house next door.

They were
surrounded by corn
and her parents.

I always loved her house.
She had one of those rooms,
most grandma’s have,
the sort of room
you’re never really allowed
to be in,
except on Christmas.

That was were the nice
furniture was,
and of course
it was white.

Super practical.

Her house was always
nice.
It didn’t smell,
like
old people lived there.
She has style
sort of timeless,
but still sort of grandma-ish…

but the ceiling arched up
at every corner
and I thought that was
the coolest thing
ever.

A painting hung,
on the opposite wall
of this
giant window
you could see all
the corn from
and a big
wheeping
widow.

It was a painting
of flowers in a pot
and it sort of always
looked old.

Once I read about
Van Gogh
and had a surface level
understanding of
the sunflower painting,
I was convinced
my grandma
was in possession
of a real Van Gogh.

No one believed me.
I always thought
it was because,
they didn’t care about art.
or, maybe they didn’t know
who Van Gogh was
but probably
because I was 8.

She did not,
in fact
have a Van Gogh painting.
They weren’t even sunflowers
in the painting
that hung across
from the giant window
and the whipping willow
that peeped inside.


Those are my thoughts for today. Until tomorrow, friends.

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